


love of the village

by nymja



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet Fluff I guess, F/M, Pregnancy, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:51:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Bellamy and Clarke 281 days to become parents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love of the village

**Author's Note:**

> done for a prompt on tumblr! warning just in case for the discussions about abortion and a (short) depiction of a panic attack

**Day 1**

“I’m late,” Clarke tells him in the morning, before he’s about to set out on the daily security patrol. And he recognizes the look on her face: the furrowed brows, the lips pressed tightly together. It’s the look she gets when she’s trying to extend the rations of ten people to twenty, the one she has when attempting to manage the alliance between another Grounder clan. It’s the look Clarke gets when she’s presented with an obstacle she doesn’t know how to solve. It’s the look she has when she’s silently asking for his help in making a decision.

Bellamy knows what she’s asking him. He takes a minute to compose himself—Clarke doesn’t do well with overt emotions when it comes to them. Never has, never will. And he knows that right now, she needs help with the tactical choice, not the one that ties his stomach in knots.

“Can I think about it?” He says, sliding his hand into hers for a quick moment, squeezing their fingers together.

Clarke nods, relieved, and squeezes back.

\--

“Let’s do it,” Bellamy tells her that night, before they’re about to fall asleep. He wraps his arm around her shoulders as she lies on his chest, pressing her tightly against him.

“Are you sure?” She asks his heartbeat.

“Yeah,” he replies softly, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

They lay together in silence, unable to sleep but not feeling the need to talk about it further. For now.

**Day 3**

The Grounders have a different view of kids than them. Back on the Ark, births were planned things, organized. Couples (or mothers) had to apply for permits, file paperwork, and ideally would notify the Council at least a month in advance of trying to conceive. The Council would then allocate rations, prepare space in the nursery, and provide an additional family room to the housing unit if the family could afford it. When a baby was born, congratulations were delivered with a hollow tone of voice, tight smiles, and often conciliatory pats on the shoulder. Children, ultimately, meant a burden—on the Ark, on the family. Bellamy’s family knew that better than most.

And while things have changed, not all habits go away. He and Clarke wouldn’t be the first to have a child on the ground. That honor went to a newlywed couple, former botanical specialists now attempting to structure the community gardens. But it’s still not common. The past three years have been centered on survival. Only recently have perspectives changed to _building_ something.

But they try.

“Congratulations,” Abby Griffin says, her smile tight and her words just a little strained as she washes blood from her hands after stitching up a tear in his shoulder, “You’ll make a great father.”

He’s not sure what to do with the compliment (if it even is a compliment), but thankfully there’s another crisis on the docket for Chancellor (hunting accident, lots of blood) and he slips out without having to give a reply.

“We’ve started arrangements for pre-natal care,” Kane says, giving him a conciliatory pat on the shoulder before going to check on the electric wiring upholding the security fences.

The Grounders do things differently.

While the population of Grounders (mostly Trikru) that have integrated with the Arkers is small, they’re still part of whatever Camp Jaha now stands for. As such, Bellamy knows most of them. And when they hear the news, it’s… _happy._ Full smiles that show off teeth, hearty claps on the shoulder. Nyko even gives him some of his alcohol stores.

“Congratulations,” Lincoln says during lunch at the mess. He never looks fully comfortable wherever he is—the flight jacket doesn’t negate the Trigedakru tattoos, and the sword he wields doesn’t make his occasional exclusion from the other warriors any less noticeable. But Lincoln’s managed to find home, somehow. And while Bellamy isn’t sure what to call their relationship ( _in-law_ feels wrong, somehow), the past few years they’ve managed to reach an Understanding that gradually made its way into friendship. Then family.

“Thanks,” Bellamy says, drinking deeply from the glass in front of him.

Lincoln smiles, and it’s one of those full, Grounder-smiles that makes Bellamy feel a little unsettled. His brother-in-law (which still feels wrong to say, maybe it’ll always feel wrong) has only smiled like that once before, during his and Octavia’s joining ceremony two years ago, “Your village will be thankful.”

He thinks of Abby’s restrained smile. Kane’s shoulder-clap. The pitying, accusatory stares they used to send his mother as she walked down the halls, alone, holding his hand, “Yeah. Sure.”

Lincoln’s smile falls, just a little, “Are you not…?”

“We want it,” Bellamy is quick to say. And he does. He just doesn’t know how to feel about _wanting_ a kid. He tries to grin, but it’s too slow and small to be genuine.

The Grounder only inclines his head, and the two of them continue to eat their meal in a companionable silence. After a while, Bellamy catches Lincoln staring into the distance, and he follows his gaze. Across the field outside of the mess, the younger warriors (Ground and Sky People alike) who are not yet seconded sit in a circle. In the center of the circle is Octavia, animatedly demonstrating how to grip a sword with a stick she must have found from the woods somewhere. The image makes his smile soften, especially when several little hands shoot up into the air when she asks if there’s questions.

“She’s told me about your mother,” Lincoln says quietly, and when Bellamy’s head snaps to face him, Lincoln instead keeps his attention focused on his sister, “About living under the floor.” Lincoln’s jaw clenches, “About what happens to children who are not wanted with the Sky People.”

Bellamy breathes slowly through his nose, “Our mom did what she could. They killed her for it.”

Lincoln looks like he wants to argue, but thankfully bites back whatever it is he is about to say. Instead, he reluctantly turns his attention away from where Octavia is training the warriors, “It doesn’t have to be that way, here.”

Bellamy swallows, “It’s still dangerous.”

Lincoln is quiet for a few moments, taking a sip from his own cup, “…in Trigedaslang, we have another name for infants: _hodnes gon kru-houm_.”

“What’s it mean.”

“Love of our village.”

Lincoln stands and leaves without another word.

\--

The delinquents aren’t Grounders.  
But they aren’t Arkers, either.

 

**Day 5**

“You know,” Octavia says as she drags a whetstone across the edge of her blade, “I still can’t picture you as a dad.”

The Blake siblings have a rare moment alone—the two pulled straws to run a three-day border patrol around the outskirts of Camp Jaha’s security systems. It’s been a long day of hiking, hunting, and scouting, and now that they’ve finally managed to start a decent fire and set up camp, Bellamy just wants to close his eyes and _sleep._

“Why’s that,” he asks, slowly turning the spigot over the fire. The scent of rabbit fills the air and his stomach rumbles.

“I guess I just thought…” Octavia shakes her head, a trail of braids flying out with the motion. He waits for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. And Bellamy watches her profile glow in the fire, his mind going back to the conversation he had with Lincoln.

“You and Lincoln never thought about it?”

“No,” she says, then sighs, “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

The stone scraps across the sword with added vigor. The harsh sound echoes throughout the trees, “Lincoln’s mentioned it,” is what she finally settles on, a scowl on her mouth.

Bellamy understands. He gets it, probably more than anyone else. But even he didn’t get locked up for being born. He didn’t have to lie for hours at a time underneath floorboards, knowing that any noise meant the death of their mother.

There aren’t any words for him to say, so instead he just slings an arm over her shoulders. She goes stock-still, but after a moment she decompresses and leans in to him.

“…It’s not going to be like it was before,” Bellamy finally mutters.

Octavia snorts, but he hears the silence where she doesn’t argue.

**Day 10**

Bellamy rolls over in his sleep, arm reaching for Clarke. Instead it lands on nothing, and he frowns before blinking himself awake. As soon as his eyes adjust, he sees a low-lamp on their nearby desk, and Clarke sitting, hunched over something.

“What are you doing?” He grumbles, pushing himself up.

“Nothing. Go back to bed,” she says, and he hears the sound of a pen scratching against paper.

Shaking his head, Bellamy pulls back the covers and walks, barefoot, over the cold metal of their floor. They started living together a little over a year and a half ago, a year after she came back from Polis. Six months after they first slept together. It was always a slow, steady thing between them. Until ten days ago. Since then, there’s been…something off.

He stands behind her, yawning and peering over her shoulder.

It’s…a chart.

Three columns.

Column A: Date, subdivided into three sections.  
Column B: Vitamins  
Column C: Milligrams

“The hell is this,” he asks, resting his chin on top of her head.

Her hand pauses in writing out _600mg._ Clarke leans back into his chest, sighing, “…vitamins.”

“For?”

“Prenatal. I want to get the counts figured out for the remainder of the pregnancy, so mom can start reserving.”

Bellamy’s never heard of such a thing. But he doesn’t doubt Clarke’s mapped it out as thoroughly as possible. His eyes narrow as he stares at the chart. Hesitantly, he points to where the dates are sectioned out, “Trimesters?” He offers.

“Mhm,” she replies, resting her hand over his other arm when it wraps around her stomach.

His eyes drift to a day circled in red. His heart seems to skip a beat, “Then that’s…”

“Yeah.”

Bellamy swallows. Looks at the due date. Breathes slowly through his nose, “Doesn’t seem far away when it’s on paper.”

“That’s because it’s not.”

He looks at The Chart, with its careful, proportional columns and rows. With its accurate measurements, “You…want me to do anything? With all this?”

Clarke is quiet for a few moments. And Bellamy knows her. Knows that if she can handle it herself, she’d prefer to. She’s stubborn and self-reliant, but that’s her. That’s Clarke. And if she doesn’t want him to help her make charts or ration vitamins that’s her call-

“I have some books, if you want to read them,” she finally says, “From my mom.”

“Sure,” he can read books, “But Clarke?”

“Hm?”

Bellamy doesn’t want to think about vitamins right now. Or dates with red circles around them. So instead he presses a slow kiss behind her ear, “Let’s go back to bed. It’s four in the morning.”

“I have a shift at the hospital in two hours,” she warns.

His arm tightens around her, “Plenty of time.”

**Day 11**

There’s thirty fucking books. He bribes Jasper and Monty with his alcohol reserves to take five of them and write notes.

**Day 15**

“So, Poppa Bellamy, huh?” Wick asks with a smirk, lifting his metal visor up to the top of his head. Sitting near his feet is Findley, dark eyes wide and unblinking as the toddler plays with a spanner on the ground.

“Just weld the damn thing,” Bellamy answers, over-tired from spending the night before reading something on _doulas._

Wick shakes his head, flipping the visor down and summoning the flame from the blowtorch again. Bellamy frowns at the open fire so near the kid. Findley doesn’t even seem phased, quietly assembling his blocks and then knocking them over with the metal tool.

“What’s this even for?” Wick questions in a louder voice to compensate for the blowtorch.

“Crib.”

“Little early, don’t you think?”

“We have a six-month plan.”

“Course you do.”

Bellamy ignores the engineer (who he’s never quite liked), in favor of kneeling down in front of Findley. The toddler looks up, and points smugly at the scattered toys on the ground.

“Block!”

Bellamy nods, “Block,” he agrees.

Findley whacks the block with the wrench a few times, “Better block!”

The plasma torch shutters off, “That’s all Raven, for the record. I tried to teach him to scaffold the other day. Didn’t work.”

Bellamy frowns as Findley continues to hammer the block with the metal object, “…should he be in here?”

Wick rolls his eyes, “Of course he should. Boy’s an engineer, and I’ve baby proofed the place.”

Bellamy notices, as if for the first time, that all the corners have foam padding taped around them. All the edged tools are kept in secure fastens.

“What about the wrench?”

“Findley likes the wrench.”

“Damn! Damn, damn!” Findley cries with each punctuated slam against the blocks. Bellamy looks over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow.

Wick’s eyes widen, and he puts down the blowtorch, “Findley, I thought we agreed we weren’t going to let anyone know you heard that word-“

“Damn, damn!”

“Shit, Findley, no bad words-“

“Shit!”

“Son of a-!”

Bellamy rolls his eyes, gently prying the wrench from his tiny hands. The toddler’s eyes start to water, but Bellamy quickly replaces the wrench with a block, and it seems to pacify him.

“Natural already. Took me two months to figure out the pressure-sensitive toy-swap,” Wick comments, smirk firmly in place.

He sighs, “Wick?”

“Yeah, Poppa Bellamy?”

“Make the damn crib.”

“Damn! Damn, damn!”

Wick pinches the bridge of his nose, “Now look what you’ve done.”

 

**Day 20**

“Bellamy?” Clarke groans from across the room. It sounds muffled by a pillow.

“Yeah?” He calls back, underlining a particularly important sentence on something called toxoplasmosis.

“Get your ass to bed. It’s four in the morning.”

 

**Day 32**

“Think it’s going to call me Auntie O?” Octavia asks with a forced amount of brevity. Lincoln sends her a brief look that Bellamy can’t decipher.

“If you want it to,” Clarke responds in a distracted manner, as she threads a needle through Octavia’s skin. His sister winces, but doesn’t move from her spot on the operating table as Clarke finishes patching up the wound she got training the younger warriors (a thirteen year old with a sloppy swing—Bellamy would have words with him, but when he went to find him the kid already had a shiner from a sparring match with Octavia immediately following the machete-through-her-arm exercise).

“Corny,” Octavia says, and Bellamy notices her fingers discretely brush against Lincoln’s, “But it could work.”

Clarke gives a small smile as she snips the surgical thread.

 

**Day 45**

He’s had her hair in his hands for about a half hour now, rubbing slow circles into her back as she heaves.

Once she’s done, she leans back against a tree, panting and rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand, “…We can do this, right?”

Bellamy passes her his canteen. She drinks.

“Yeah, we can.” He wants it to be true. That’s what counts.

 

**Day 77**

“What is it?” Bellamy asks.

“What is what?”

“The test you’re doing tomorrow.”

“The CPV?”

“Yeah.”

Clarke bites her lower lip, “It’s procedure.”

“For?”

She exhales, “Checking for chromosomal disorders.”

Bellamy’s quiet, frowning at his hands. He doesn’t want to ask what happens if anything comes back positive. Raven has her brace for a reason—living on the ground isn’t kind to anyone.

 

**Day 78**

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally says, looking at Clarke as Abby draws blood from slight swell of her stomach.

“Bellamy?” Clarke asks, a slight rasp to her voice (she hadn’t slept last night. He heard her pacing across the room as the sun came up).

“The test, it doesn’t matter.”

Abby sends him a hard look, “Bellamy, there are certain conditions we can’t-“

“Figure it out,” Bellamy says coldly, as he holds Clarke’s hand tightly between his own.

“It’s not that simple. We’re still on limited supplies-“

“ _Figure it out,_ ” he growls, thinking about Octavia, crying as quietly as she could under the floor because she couldn’t play. Remembers his sister asking him what color the sky was. He’s not going to let his kid be unwanted, it doesn’t matter for whatever reason.

Clarke closes her eyes, “…we’ll see what the test says,” she compromises, running her thumb over his knuckles, “And go from there.”

“ _Hodnes gon kru-houm,_ ” Bellamy whispers.

Clarke, who he knows learned Trigedaslang from Lexa during their time in Polis, gives a small frown of confusion.

 

**Day 81**

The test comes back negative.

“What would you have done?” He asks her, as they set up an external comm system.

Clarke sighs, closing her eyes, “What we needed to do for our people.”

She doesn’t sound remorseful, only resigned. And Bellamy knows she’s right. But he also knows he would’ve been right, too.

“What’s it mean? Love of the village?” Clarke asks after a few hours, planting another receiver in the ground.

Bellamy hammers it in, “It’s what the Trikru call newborns.”

She smiles, though it’s sad, “…nice thought.”

But not always a reality. He gets it.

“Yeah, it is.”

They aren’t Arkers.  
But they’re not Grounders, either.

**Day 90**

She’s showing more. There’s a rounded swell at the base of her abdomen. He presses his hand over it when she’s sleeping, wondering if he’s imagining the sound of a heartbeat.

 

**Day 100**

“Hey, future Chancellor,” Raven cries from across camp. Bellamy looks up from his shooting practice, to see her waving him over, “Come see the baby shower gift.”

He frowns, but sets down the gun and makes his way to the medical tent.

\--

“It works?” Bellamy asks, his heart up in his throat as Raven presses electrodes onto Clarke’s bare stomach. Clarke sends him a slightly concerned look, and he puts his hand in hers.

Raven snorts, “Of course it works, I’m awesome.” She tapes the electrodes over, “Made it out of the sensors they found a few weeks ago, and what was left of the x-rays.”

“And that’s…safe,” Clarke mutters, clearly unsure.

“Yes, your highness, it’s safe. Don’t believe me, ask the surgeon. We checked around five hundred times,” Raven squirts out some gel onto Clarke’s belly, nodding up at Abby, who stands behind Clarke with obviously tense body posture.

“It’s safe,” Abby mumbles through her teeth, hand coming to rest on Clarke’s shoulder and squeezing.

“Okay, it’s ready,” Raven arches an eyebrow at the both of them, “Are you?”

“Let’s do it,” Clarke whispers. Bellamy only nods.

\--

The screen turns on. It’s grainy, but he sees it: the outline of a head. The flickering white light of a heartbeat.

Clarke swallows hard, stare trained on the screen, “I. I can’t tell what it is-”

“Girl,” Abby whispers quietly, squeezing her daughter’s shoulder tighter as her eyes water, “It’s a girl.”

 

**Day 120**

“Got a name for her yet?” Octavia asks from where the four of them sit around the campfire. It’s almost fall, and the summer air is chilled. She leans against Lincoln, who wordlessly wraps an arm around her waist.

“I…haven’t thought about it,” Clarke says, clearly surprised at the question. She looks up at Bellamy from where her head rests on his shoulder, “You?”

He hasn’t. He’s been too busy trying to think about vitamins, and chromosomes, and keeping the Camp stocked with rations and clean water. A lesser, non-charitable part of him would also admit he had moments of thinking about it (her) as a test to prepare for, rather than a person.

“You could name her after mom,” Octavia suggests, though Bellamy hears bitterness in her words and she doesn’t look away from the fire.

He meets Clarke’s eyes. She gives a small nod of understanding.

But Bellamy frowns. After a few minutes, he can admit that he doesn’t want to name her after his mother. The memory of Aurora Blake is one that doesn’t need to be here, on the ground, with them. Aurora belongs to him, and Octavia. It’s his family, but it’s not the same family he has now. Bellamy swallows, and looks at Lincoln and Octavia.

 _Augustus had a sister.  
_ He’s already named someone before.

Bellamy clears his throat, “…Why don’t you name her, Octavia?”

Her head snaps up, “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why?”

“You’re Auntie O,” Clarke says around a yawn, and Bellamy is always amazed at her perceptiveness.

Octavia’s eyes widen, and she gives a slow swallow. Lincoln tightens his hold on her.

Finally, she says in a quiet voice, “…Augustus had a daughter.”

Bellamy smiles.

\--

They decide on Julia.

 

**Day 180**

“How about now,” Clarke demands, raising the doll in frustration.

“Looks like shit,” Bellamy says, looking at the cloth pinned in place at the doll’s hips.

“I followed the instructions,” she says in a clipped tone.

“Sort of.”

“Then you do it.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes, standing behind her and guiding her arms, “Over, like this.”

“I removed an appendix yesterday,” she mutters sourly as he corrects another of her seams.

He snorts, kissing her cheek, “You still suck at diapers.”

 

**  
Day 200**

“You’re moving,” Kane says as he walks by Bellamy, not even looking up from his clipboard.

“What?” Bellamy asks, pivoting on his heel to meet Kane’s retreating back.

“Room 2-19 by the end of the week,” Kane’s voice echoes in the hall as he continues to walk quickly down it, disappearing after a few seconds.

Unit 2 is one of the family Units in Camp Jaha. Something in Bellamy’s stomach flips.

 

**Day 203**

“My feet are fatter. I need new boots,” Clarke throws her one pair angrily the wall, “And to pee for the ninth time this hour and for you to tell Murphy to _stop using the **fucking** transmitter_.”

A dirty bootprint is how they decorate the new room.

 

**Day 217**

He wakes up one night to Clarke sitting on the floor of their bathroom, fingers embedded in her hair and chest heaving with gasping breaths.

“Clarke?” He demands, moving over towards her, “What’s going on?”

“I-“

“Breathe.”

“I can’t-“

“ _Breathe,_ Clarke.”

Bellamy crouches down next to her as she tries to regain her breath. He lightly holds her shoulders, he counts out loud for her so she can get her inhales under control. This isn’t the first panic attack she’s had since they’ve been together, but it seems worse than the others. Once Clarke’s done hyperventilating, she squeezes her eyes shut and rests her forehead on his shoulder. He rubs a slow trail up and down her spine.

“You okay?” He asks after another fifteen minutes have passed.

She takes another shuddering breath and nods. He doesn’t say anything as he scoops her up, and takes her back to bed.

They can talk in the morning.

 

**Day 218**

“I can’t control any of this,” she confesses, head on the pillow and facing him after their alarm goes off.

“The baby?”

Clarke hesitates, but nods.

He isn’t sure what to say, so he just tucks a blonde curl behind her ear.

She closes her eyes, “I’m not going to be a good mother.”

Bellamy knows there’s much, much more that she isn’t saying. That part of her will always carry the guilt of those people (kids) in Mt. Weather, the Grounders in TonDC. He gets that—he still feels those three hundred people from the culling on his chest. Still remembers the expression on his mother’s face when they shut the airlock doors. The sound of Octavia crying for him to help when they dragged her away to the prison cells.

Neither of them want mistakes repeated. Neither want their burdens carried over.

Bellamy kisses her slowly, “Then we’ll learn.”

 

**Day 249**

Clarke comes back to their room with a harrowed, drawn look.

“What?” Bellamy asks.

“Diagrams,” is all she says.

(Later that night, he sees one of the baby books opened to a chapter on the delivery process and it all snaps into place).

 

**Day 253**

Clarke has a new chart. A schedule for baby feeding, diaper changing, rotations for sleep.

Bellamy’s seen something like it before. The guard-duty shifts posted in the main tent.

 

**Day 261**

“You’re telling it wrong,” Octavia cuts in.

Bellamy frowns, “I am not.”

“You are. Lion then Hydra.”

Bellamy looks up to Clarke. She’s sitting at her desk, making the patrol schedule. She shrugs. He scowls, betrayed, “Fine. You do it, then.”

Octavia rolls her eyes, but he’s surprised when she takes a seat next to him and looks at Clarke’s protruding stomach, “Okay, here’s how it really goes Julia-“

 

**  
Day 264**

“Ta da!” Jasper says, him and Monty outstretching a cloth between them. It’s piece-meal, sewn together in odd seams.

Bellamy narrows his eyes, “What is it.”

“Baby sling,” Monty says, and Jasper holds out his arms, “Observe.”

A few seconds later, and Jasper has a pocket on his chest. It does, indeed, look like it has baby-capacity.

“Wait for it…” Jasper says, pulling something out of his bag, “We made this too.”

Bellamy looks at a small, baby-sized piece of Kevlar. And sighs.

 

**Day 272**

“You press this button,” Wick explains, hitting the red one on the side of the finalized crib, “And it collapses-“

“Or, you ask me to uninstall it. Since that’s a disaster waiting to happen,” Raven says pointedly.

Wick frowns, “But it’s easier for storage.”

“And a baby pressing a shiny, red button sounds like a great plan to you?”

“We had one on Findley’s crib-“

“I uninstalled it.”

“ _How_? It had overrides-“

“A hammer.”

\--

“It was perfectly safe,” Wick grumbles, as Bellamy breaks the button with the pronged end of Raven’s hammer.

 

**Day 276**

“Soon,” Clarke whispers as they sit on the outskirts of camp, watching the sun slip under the horizon line. She leans back into his chest from where she sits in front of him, his legs framing hers.

“You ready?” He asks, hand resting on her thigh.

“Finalized the chart yesterday.”

“…you ready?”

Clarke sighs and sags against him. He kisses her cheek. “…no. You?”

“No.”

“That shouldn’t make me feel better, but it does.”

He chuckles, feels it reverberate in his chest, “Worried?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

 

**Day 278**

Bellamy comes home, and when he gets to the spare room (nursery, he guesses), he’s surprised to see Lincoln there. Clarke’s beside them, and on the floor there’s a mess. Charcoals, pencils, paints. Brushes.

Instead of a bootprint, there’s flowers and electric-blue butterflies.

“Couldn’t sit still I’m guessing,” he says, though his throat feels tighter for reasons he can’t explain when he looks around the brightly painted walls of the nursery.

“I wanted to give Julia something,” Lincoln says quietly, as he paints another petal on a white flower.

“And I just needed something to do,” Clarke says bluntly, painting stars on another wall.

The room has splashes of color everywhere, flowers and butterflies. Comets and stars. Ground and Sky.

Home.

 

**Day 281**

“Bell!”

He turns from his work rerouting the irrigation system, and sees Octavia running towards him with a speed that can only mean one thing.

“Now?” He asks, dropping the shovel.

“Now!” She agrees, trying to catch her breath.

They make their way to the med tent without any other words exchanged between them.

 

**Day 282**

He holds her hand. Clarke is suspiciously silent as she goes into labor—a few pained breaths and the occasional, wordless cry of pain. But her face is trained ahead to a spot on the wall the whole time like a woman on a mission.

Bellamy, by contrast, feels as though he’s about to die. He alternates between checking Clarke’s vitals on the machine, wiping Clarke’s forehead, and trying not to think that this is what the end of the world feels like as one hour goes into two, to three, to five, to eight.

He doesn’t leave. And eight hours suddenly feels like no time at all when a screeching, piercing cry cuts the heavy silence in the room.

 

**Day 1**

“Bellamy, would you like to hold your daughter?” Abby asks, breathless and just as tired as the both of them.

He would. He does. He watches as her small, pink and angry face scrunches up. As her tiny fists squirm for something to grab. He offers her his finger. And he’s terrified and elated and he doesn’t know what to do or say and so he does nothing but watches as Julia becomes very, very real in front of him.

A couple of minutes pass. And it’s hard, but he eventually lets go of her. Only to give her to Clarke.

“I love you,” he croaks out after a few minutes, trying to articulate whatever it is that’s taken hold of him. He knows it’s bigger than that, bigger than those three words, but it will have to do for now.

Clarke doesn’t look away from Julia’s face. She’s exhausted. Obviously in horrible pain. Looks like hell.

But she smiles and nods.


End file.
